Fairy Tale
by Cynic
Summary: I was a man on the edge, and I tripped and fell off the sharp knife point I was flouncing down.


Title: Fairy Tale

Author: Cynic ( MyYouthfulCynicism@hotmail.com )

Disclaimer: See Sheldon? (mmm…pretty) Not mine. See money? (mmmm….pretty) Not mine.

Rating: R

Feedback: Anything! Constructive Crit is greatly appreciated. 

Archive: Yes Please! E-mail me a link.

Warning: Cursing and Innuendo. Generally Sandsiness

Summary: I was a man on the edge, and I tripped and fell off the sharp knife point I was flouncing down. 

When I was little I was afraid of the dark.

 A bit ridiculous isn't it? Absurd, even. Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands, afraid of the dark, silly. But I was always a bit over the top. I was a man on the edge, and I tripped and fell off the sharp knife point I was flouncing down. 

It is always dark now. And I am afraid.

It is an odd feeling, that. Fear. I had almost forgotten it. Well, not really. I remembered it. After all, I saw it every time I held a gun to someone's head, or a knife at their throat. Metaphorically, of course. Most of the time. 

But I had forgotten how it felt like.

The palms of my hands, sweating within my tight leather gloves, making them slick and sticky, the dull ache behind my chest, pounding upward into my throat, the sudden and inexplicable urge to look behind me, although I know I cannot see.

I often do anyway. 

There is something behind me, in the darkness, beyond the shadows and the mist. He's grinning at me, sipping a tequila and lime, and looking fine beyond all measure. He fingers a gun, silencer equipped, and he aims it at me, muttering something about the pork. But he can not kill me. I will not die.  

After all, already being in hell, I figure it's not worth the one-way ticket.

            They offered to bring me back home, to the US. I gave them the finger and sauntered out of the embassy. That probably ruled out my chance at the promotion. After all, I had succeeded, at least to them. The president wasn't dead, Barillo and Marquez were. In their tiny, bureaucratic minds, they thought that I was just another mindless automaton.

I'll give them mindless. I'll give them mindless so hard that it will rip their ass open.

            And I can't leave Mexico. Why would I? My fairy tale ended, and they always have to live happily ever after. The villain is always dead, and they lucky hero gets his lady love. My twisted, fucking, fairy tale seemed to have a sadomasochism streak. Along with a heavy dose of irony. 

I thought I was the villain, but apparently I am some sort of hero. I killed my lady love and had my eyes ripped out. 

Hans Christian Anderson seems to be on crack. 

Or, because it's Mexico, grass. Drug Cartels, their like the ghosts in that old Pac Man game, you kill them, they scurry off and come back.  In all likelihood they're not the same ones, but hell. I don't care. I can't see them, anyway.

Yes. Because I am blind.

"Mi Dios!" Yes, I know I am blind. Exactly how stupid do you think I am? It is rather an odd thing for me to miss, don't you think? Oh, you were surprised? Would you mind if I say I don't give a flying fuck? No need to be rude? Fuck off.

I am just so bubbly and social these days, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Although, that, possibly, is the result of the fourth tequila. Which was a little bit ago. Lovely drink, tequila. Quite strong and tasty. And the shot glasses they serve it in are so fulfilling to throw against the wall. Make a wonderful shattering noise, the glass tinkling to the ground. Sort of like my life. 

And you wonder why bartenders hate me?

Not that their alone. With the risk of sounding like a teenager or a Nirvana song, everyone hates me. Or, at least, is afraid of me. The second one is much more to my liking. It is very difficult to be frightened of someone who pisses their pants at the sight of you. 

And I hate being scared. 

I hate a lot of things and most of them hate me back. Such a wonderful, cheery outlook on life. And I have had just the background for such optimism. And yes, I know. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Fuck off. Was that lower?

Now, if you excuse me, I intend to go find someone to skullfuck me to death. 

Ta. 


End file.
